


Temperament

by ArliaDevi



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fools in Love, Getting Together, Jealous Roach, M/M, Mean Roach, Roach tries to keep them apart but somehow it backfires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22663996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: Five times Roach tried to keep Jaskier and Geralt apart and the one time she bought them together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 1407





	Temperament

i  
  


‘Don’t touch Roach.’

Such a simple demand. Not at all hard to follow.

But it’s because Geralt said it that makes Jaskier’s fingers itch. He knows he shouldn’t touch the horse, Geralt specifically banned him from it, but Roach’s ear is flicking in a way that Jaskier means she’s got an itch she literally cannot scratch and honestly, he’s doing her a favour.

‘What did I say?’ Geralt smears a garlic-smelling salve over Jaskier’s bleeding knuckles.

‘Not to touch Roach.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘Touch her,’ Jaskier sighs as Geralt fastens the bandage around his fingers. Her teeth had broken the skin, and probably bruised the bone, but otherwise, there’s no real damage. He’ll live to strum another day. ‘But it looked like she needed a scratch, honestly, I did it to try to help her.’

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand and immediately he misses the warmth of his palm, how gentle his fingers had been as he’d cradled Jaskier’s hand in his and wrapped the bandage around his fingers.

‘Your hand will be fine,’ Geralt says. ‘Don’t touch Roach.’

‘Right, yes, got the message. Mean old thing she is.’

‘She’s not old,’ Geralt replies as he goes over to soothe the horse.

ii

Jaskier’s hand heals fine. He doesn’t try to touch Roach again, not even when she has a very obvious itch on the rump that _Geralt_ definitely isn’t going to scratch for her, and if she’d only be a little nicer to him then he certainly would.

He wonders what’s her issue, anyway. She’s a cantankerous thing, devotedly loyal to the Witcher to the point she can be called on a whistle. She stares down Drowners and Ghouls alike without spooking. Jaskier’s surely less scary than a ghoul.

‘She’s not scared of you,’ Geralt tells him one afternoon as they walk. ‘She just doesn’t like you.’

‘But why?’ Jaskier hopes it doesn’t sound like a whine.

‘Your singing,’ he replies. ‘She hates your singing.’

‘No, you’re just fobbing off your own distaste on her,’ he says.

‘We both hate it.’

Jaskier huffs.

The afternoon grows cold. It’s autumn and winter is slowly creeping down from the mountains. They find a place to set up camp and Jaskier follows Geralt to the stream, where he waters Roach. He’s been two days without a bath, and the creek water is deep and crystal clear. Gingerly, Jaskier leans forward to test the temperature when he feels something heavy press against his rear.

‘Roach!’

Geralt’s cry is muffled by the feel of water hitting his face. Jaskier splutters as he resurfaces.

‘Fuck me, it’s cold,’ he chatters as he trudges out of the creek. ‘She did that on purpose, Geralt.’

‘Get out of your clothes, your lips are blue.’

Jaskier fumbles with his doublet, heavy with water, but his fingers are numb and shaking. With a huff, Geralt pushes them back into camp and stokes the fire before all but ripping Jaskier’s doublet off.

‘Hey!’ he protests.

‘Pants off too. Get by the fire and warm up,’ Geralt says, tossing him a thick blanket that smells like a horse. ‘Hurry up. Don’t make me undress you like a child.’

Jaskier grunts indignantly as he peels his soaked pants off and throws them over a nearby stump to warm up. The blanket is scratchy but warm, and he spends the next hour sitting by the fire to ward off hypothermia.

Roach watches him from where she’s tethered on a nearby tree. When he thinks Geralt isn’t looking, he gives her the finger.

‘Don’t torment her,’ Geralt replies from behind.

iii

Their relationship does not improve, no matter how much time they spend together. No matter how many times Jaskier sneaks her an apple, or refills her water basin or tries, unsuccessfully, to pat her without her going in for a nip.

They are definitely nips, though. No longer harsh bites. That’s something at least.

Geralt is _interesting_ with Roach. One afternoon, he untethers Roach and they spend the afternoon playing, which is quite a bizarre thing to watch. Roach pads at the ground with a hoof, darting off when Geralt chases her. Eventually, she tires of the game and nudges at him for food, and he organises her feedbag.

‘She still doesn’t like me,’ Jaskier huffs when Geralt comes back. ‘Will she ever?’

‘Probably not,’ Geralt replies. ‘She’s distrusting of men, doesn’t like small children, general noises of civilisation.’

‘How did you find such a mare?’ Jaskier mutters.

‘Outskirts of Flotsam. She was cheap,’ he replies. ‘Either she’d be a good investment or a small loss.’

Jaskier sighs as he places the potatoes around the edge of the campfire to roast. ‘She’s certainly something.’

They continue for another day and stay in a small town. The noticeboard says that the Viscount of the nearby county will pay good coin for someone who can track down his missing wife. Geralt grumbles at the advert but decides to pay him a visit.

‘Had a similar situation before. Paid a bit of coin. Simple enough job.’

‘Do you think she’s alive?’

Geralt is emotionless as he replies, ‘No.’

‘Oh.’

They’re an hour into the ride when Geralt stops, dismounts Roach, and loops her reigns on a nearby tree.

‘Geralt?’

He holds a finger to his lips as he draws his sword. ‘Stay by the horse.’

The bandits slip out from the bushes just as Jaskier makes it to Roach’s side. Geralt deflects an arrow.

‘Kill me face-to-face,’ he bellows to the archer before throwing a knife into the canopy. Jaskier slinks back into the thicket of bushes, hand on the hilt of the dagger around his hip. Roach paws at the ground nervously.

‘Stay quiet and you’ll keep your neck,’ says a voice from behind. Jaskier startles, whirls around and jabs out before he has a second to think. The dagger sinks into soft flesh, and then he twists, because he thinks maybe that’s what he should do, but then there is blood on his hands, a lot of it and it’s so warm. The bandit stumbles back, a knife stuck securely in his shoulder.

‘Holy shit,’ Jaskier says. His hands are covered in blood.

Roach grows restless.

‘Jaskier!’ It’s Geralt. The bandit, at hearing the call, turns and scampers back into the forest.

A hand soothes Roach’s muzzle. ‘Jaskier, are you hurt?’

‘No,’ he mutters. He can’t take his eyes off his hands. They’re _covered_ in so much blood. ‘I’m fine. They were trying to steal Roach.’

The hand on Roach’s muzzle slips away to touch as Jaskier’s shoulder. He’s trembling, he knows Geralt can feel it. But his touch is heavy and warm and reassuring. ‘Come on, you need a wash.’

iv

If Roach is appreciative of _being saved,_ she’s certainly not inclined to show it. Not in the way that she won’t let Jaskier grab a roll of jerky – _his jerky, that he bought –_ from Geralt’s pack. The saddlebags are still attached to her sides as Geralt washes his hands and face in the nearby stream.

‘Roach,’ Jaskier hisses. ‘Don’t be such a mule.’

Jaskier makes another grab for the saddlebag and seizes the soft leather flap between his fingers. He finds the jerky quickly and turns to see Geralt coming towards him when he feels a hard push. He pitches forward into Geralt’s arms, flustered and unsteady.

Geralt catches him easily, his amber eyes regarding him with amusement.

‘S-sorry,’ Jaskier swallows as he grips Geralt’s forearms through his thin tunic and _holy shit_. ‘I stumbled.’

That’s not entirely true, he thinks, but out of all of Roach’s antics, this is the least painful.

Geralt’s hands find his hips and suddenly Jaskier is being hoisted to his feet. The jerky falls into the mud between them.

Clearing his throat, Jaskier dusts off his doublet. ‘Yes, um, well, thank you.’

v

A few weeks later, Jaskier trips on a rocky outcrop and falls, wrenching his ankle. Geralt calls him all the swear words he knows, plus a few more Jaskier’s quite sure Geralt’s made up on the spot as he carries him back to where Roach is tethered by the tree.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Jaskier asks as he’s hoisted into Roach’s saddle. The mare protests until Geralt swings into the saddle behind Jaskier.

‘Back to the Inn. You’re a nuisance.’

Suddenly, he’s pulled against Geralt’s chest, hard with leather but warm from the sun and body heat. He feels Roach’s powerful body move underneath his thighs as she makes her way back to the township.

Jaskier rocks against Geralt, secured by an arm that lazily holds Roach’s reigns.

‘Why is she letting me ride her?’ Jaskier asks.

‘Because I asked her to,’ Geralt replies gruffly. ‘How’s your foot?’

Jaskier tries to roll his ankle. ‘Painful.’

Geralt hums as they arrive back in the Inn. The alderman pesters them as Geralt tries to get Jaskier off Roach’s saddle.

‘Ah, did you find the source of the wailing?’ asks the Alderman.

‘No. The bard twisted his ankle,’ Geralt says as he pushes open the Inn door. Jaskier tries not to swoon as he’s carried over the threshold and placed by the fire. Geralt leans down to pull off his boot and Jaskier swallows at the image of the Witcher before him and,

‘Fucking hell, that hurts,’ he groans as Geralt jabs at his ankle.

‘Bruised,’ he mutters and grabs another stool to rest the ankle on. ‘Stay.’

‘Wait,’ Jaskier flounders. ‘Where are you going? You’re not seriously going back there, are you?’

‘Find the thing that’s wailing,’ he says.

‘But it’s dangerous.’

‘You fell over a rock, Jaskier.’

The dry delivery makes Jaskier smirk, laugh a little at the absurdity of it all. ‘Fine. As you were, then.’

Geralt gives him a small smile, and oh what a lucky day it is to make him smile before he heads out the door. 

The feeling doesn’t come back to his ankle for a few hours, but it’s no matter. The feeling of Geralt behind him, the press of the body, the heat of him, the _smell_ , lingers. Surely such memory is worth but a few hours of discomfort.

\+ 1

Roach simply won’t do as she’s told. It’s not uncommon, but this is Geralt riding her, _Geralt directing her_ , and she won’t budge. They’ve come to a fork in the road, and she insists on turning left to travel the kilometre toward a small township. It’s barely noon, and Geralt supposes it’s fine to wander off the track. It’s been a while since he’s had a decent meal. The cockatrice can wait.

The town is smaller than Geralt remembers as he realises he’s passed through before – years before, when they’d been.

No. There had been no ‘they’. No ‘us’. It had simply always been Geralt.

The humans that had come in and out of his life were simply that. Transient. Passing-by.

He hears music playing in the Inn and still decides to go in.

He hears a song about himself and still decides to sit down.

He sees Jaskier strumming by the fireplace, and somehow, still orders a hot meal and a stein of ale.

Jaskier looks up from his lute, clearly unamused.

‘You found me then,’ he mutters. ‘And you can’t even be bothered to say hello.’

It’s been a year since the mountain.

Geralt looks at the seat beside him, a silent invitation. Jaskier sighs.

‘You’re really _something_ , Geralt,’ he mutters.

‘I didn’t find you,’ he replies tersely. ‘Roach led me here. She took a liking to you.’

‘Stubborn old girl,’ Jaskier says fondly as he slides into the booth and orders a drink. ‘But that’s what I like about her.’

‘Wouldn’t go where I asked her,’ he continues. ‘Wanted to come here. Suppose she knew.’

‘She did, did she?’ Jaskier says, thanking the barmaid as he places a beer in front of him. He places a coin in her palm. Geralt doesn’t miss the heaviness of his purse. ‘I wonder what she could possibly want from me.’

It’s a loaded, heavy question. Geralt’s not sure.

‘You left suddenly,’ he mutters. ‘Perhaps she wanted to see you again. Clear the air.’

‘She misses you.’

Jaskier’s lip twitches. ‘Ah, did she?’

‘Yes. I can tell.’

Jaskier flicks a granule of dirt from a ridge in the table. ‘I miss her too. We were quite good friends before the,’ he searches for the word. ‘The end, there, weren’t we?’

‘I don’t think she realised it would be the end,’ he replies. ‘When we came down from the mountain.’

‘Well, her rider had made that quite apparent.’ Jaskier takes a large swallow of his beer.

‘The rider regrets what he said.’ When Jaskier makes no move to stop him talking, he continues. ‘It was unfair. Hurtful.’

‘It’s taken you a year to apologise?’ Jaskier huffs.

‘It’s taken me a year to find you,’ Geralt replies. ‘Chasing word and concerns and anyone who knows _that damn song_. It’s not like you have a fixed address, Jaskier.’

Jaskier laughs at that. ‘No. Can you imagine such a thing? A quaint little house in some leafy neighbourhood I would call home?’

Jaskier is not getting any younger, Geralt thinks. They both aren’t. What would be so bad about it?

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be as bad.’ Jaskier says and for a moment Geralt worries he’s said his thoughts out loud. ‘To share the golden years with someone.’

‘You have such a person?’

Jaskier shrugs, non-committal. ‘Perhaps. They are also a little hard to pin down. Like to roam. Can’t blame them, really. Nasty steed. Bit me the first time I met them.’

It takes him longer than he wants to admit to cotton-on.

‘Jaskier.’

‘Just-,’ he holds up his hands. ‘Leave if you don’t feel the same way. Get on Roach and just continue on and if we run into each other again, we can have this same awkward conversation. Or maybe we won’t run into each other again – maybe this will be the last time either of us meet, Geralt, and if that is true then I don’t want you to not know that I want you, in all the ways one person can want another, and I know you don’t _need anyone_ and you don’t want anyone _needing you_ , but God, for once in your life, allow yourself to want for something. To want for me, preferably.’

Geralt sits in the heavy silence of his words.

Then slowly he rises to his knees. Jaskier watches as he grabs his pack and crosses the floor. The barmaid looks up and Geralt places a handful of coins in her hand.

Jaskier watches, confused, as Geralt comes back to the table.

‘I need to kill a Cockatrice,’ he tells Jaskier.

‘Is that...,’ he frowns. ‘Is that a euphemism?’

‘No,’ Geralt replies. ‘There’s a Cockatrice tormenting the next town over. I’ve paid for a room tonight. Come, see Roach.’

They find Roach in the day pen, well-watered and fed. She trots over to the fence line and nudges at Jaskier’s clothing.

‘Ah, good to see you too, old girl,’ he grins at the mare. ‘You remember me?’

She must, Geralt considers, Roach wouldn’t just nuzzle anyone.

‘Wait for me tonight,’ he tells Jaskier. Roach nuzzles at his shoulder affectionately and Geralt almost has to tug on the reigns. Not the kind of ravishing he’s sure the bard expected after his little speech. Still, he can’t deny the way Jaskier’s pale cheeks flush red at his words. God, this Cockatrice better be an easy kill.

‘Of course,’ Jaskier mutters. ‘I’ll wait up all night if I have to. Good luck.’

+2

Jaskier tries to wait up all night; he really does, but as the candle burns out, so does he.

Shadows fill the room soon after, like spirits creeping along the wall. Jaskier wakes up with a start, pressing himself against the headboard.

‘Hey.’ A hand presses on his sweat-soaked chest, covering his thundering heartbeat. Candlelight illuminates the face before him – bloodied and sweat-soaked but _obviously, obviously Geralt._ ‘So much for waiting up all night for me.’

Jaskier wants to protest, to tease him back, but then the hand on his chest moves to his jawline, fingers splayed out across his cheek and neck and _oh this must be a wonderful dream_ because then Geralt kisses him softly.

Jaskier’s hand finds Geralt’s jawline, sweeps across the stumble to tangle fingers in his hair. There’s no need to be chaste about it, _especially when he’s still convinced this may all still be some wondrous dream,_ so Jaskier opens his mouth slightly; an invitation. Geralt takes him greedily.

‘The cockatrice?’ Jaskier murmurs; mortified to find his voice still heavy with sleep.

‘Taken care of.’

‘And Roach?’

Geralt pushes him back slightly and climbs on to the bed. He’s in just his linens and smells like sweat and dirt and gizzards, but it’s too late to call a bath and while Jaskier _knows_ he should protest, he’s waited so long to get Geralt in bed, he simply can’t be bothered.

‘Taken care of?’

‘And you’re not hurt?’ his fingers skim his black linen shirt.

Geralt lifts an eyebrow before pulling off his shirt. There are scrapes of dirt mixed in with sweat that really should be washed off, but no blood. No wounds.

‘Not in the slightest.’

Jaskier hand curves around Geralt’s side and rests there, not moving, just holding him. ‘And you’re really here? Not some dream.’

Geralt laughs, a gentle huff. ‘Really here, Jaskier.’

He sighs contented as Geralt curls around him. Dreamily, he nuzzles Geralt’s bicep. ‘Remind me to thank Roach tomorrow. Does she still like carrots?’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have a cute Ciri-realises-her-dads-are-in-love story too. It's [here. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254058/chapters/53139793)


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